The Gift
by Paradoqz
Summary: Jack Hawksmoor joins a City in mourning.


Disclaimers: Anybody recognizable belongs to WildStorm   
Feedback and flames are welcome.   
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The Gift.   


He can feel the city. Any city on the planet. Or off. He can hear the city.   
Every breath taken, every car engine turned on, every shot fired. He can   
feel them blend together in a song like no other, into a pulse unmistakable   
and unforgettable. Every city has its own Song, every one of them feels   
differently from another. And he can hear them all. 

It's around 7pm in DC now, one of those beautiful March evenings when it's a   
crime to stay indoors and the streets are filled with people who are just   
happy to enjoy a spring day. 

It's 4 in LA and the beaches are probably full. The music is blaring in the   
clubs and cars as the working day finally ends and the nightlife just barely   
starting to come to fore. 

In Paris it's 12am and the city is alive with vibrancy and laughter, where   
the fun has been in full swing for hours and will remain so for many more to   
come. 

It's 5:57pm here and he's freezing in the cold rain. The wind is a fury of   
the Gods personified. It's grabbing at his coat and pushing him of the road.   
He's given up on his hat; it was snatched from his head an hour ago. It   
would be a matter of seconds for him to open a Door and step out in some   
place where the sun is shining and azure waves softly collide with the   
velvety sands. He can. He even knows the perfect place. He knows all of   
them. That is his gift. That is his curse. 

The wind dies for a moment, only to come back with even more force and throw   
about a gallon of water in his face. Windy City, indeed. 

It is if the city herself is crying, bawling her eyes out, lashing out in impotent anger… 

They were so alike. Both poor. Both from the South Central. Both went to the   
same school. Lived a block away from each other. They watched the same   
movies, read the same books. 

Jamal and Moishe. 

One was a son of black steelworker, the other of the Polish Jews. That made   
all the difference. 

So alike. Jamal's brother, John, joined the "Black Tigers" at 14. Helena,   
Moishe's sister started dating Jacob Rabinovich, the leader of the   
"Slashers", on her 16th birthday. 

At 18, John was shot to death in the turf war. A week later Jacob was knifed   
and Helena's jaw broken. 

So different. They hated each other on sight. The fought in school and in   
the yard. Finally the teachers stopped breaking them up. Neither joined the   
gang. Neither brought a weapon into those fights, but they were brutal   
nonetheless. 

So alike. One joined the police, sentencing himself to hate from the most of   
his former friends. Other became a fire fighter. As fate would have it they   
were sent to the same district. The 6th.   


He pulls the coat tighter about himself, ignoring the fact that it's soaked   
clear through.   
He can feel the City. That is his curse. He can feel her pain. He can feel   
her anger. The City weeps tonight, and he can feel it. That is his gift. 

So alike. It was their day off. No-one knows how they both ended up there.   
Nobody knows how the fire got started in the first place. Rumor is that the   
wiring in the building was too old. Or maybe kids were playing with matches.   
No-one knows. 

So different. They both called for backup and then disappeared inside the   
building. Seven kids. The oldest was 12. No-one is harmed more then a scrape   
or a bruise. 

Black and white. A Jew and a Moslem. In the end it made no difference at all. 

No-one knows who heard the soft crying first. No-one knows which of them   
guessed that there was another kid. No-one knows who was first under the   
bulkhead and no-one knows how they managed to raise it. Just that they did.   
And held it. Held it long enough. No-one knows how. 

He can hear the City. He can see her soul. And better than anyone he knows   
that the soul of the City is not her streets or buildings or monuments. It's   
her people. 

Finally his walk is at the end. He stops, as do hundreds of other people.   
Many of them in uniforms. Every officer, fire-jockey and paramedic who could   
make it, is here today.   
He stands, seemingly just another face among many that are weathering the   
wind and rain behind umbrellas, hats and glasses, following the slow, somber   
movements of the coffin-bearers. 

They were not there. It was just another fire, after all. Not Authority's   
business. 

Jamal and Moishe were there, by accident or by Destiny's design. They were   
there. To serve and protect. To die if need be… 

He can hear the City. That is his gift. That is his curse.   
The City weeps today.   
And Jack Hawksmoor weeps with her. 


End file.
